


VPN and Icognito

by InsaneSociopath



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Alec Hardy doesn't need a hug, Ellie is Trying™, F/M, Gen, Less abuse of laptops, Mostly Canon Compliant, Season/Series 03, Series 3 rewrite, Tom is more mature, because he IS the hug, but still very much an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22863409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneSociopath/pseuds/InsaneSociopath
Summary: “PORN!?” Ellie shouts again as she jerks the car door open harshly. “AT SCHOOL!?”Tom doesn’t answer and continues to stare mulishly at his feet.“For goodness sake Tom!” she grumbles more quietly as she slides into the driver’s seat. “You’re fifteen! Don’t tell me you don’t know what Pornhub and incognito mode are!”In which Ellie Miller tackles Tom’s bad habits a little differently and drags Hardy more into their lives in the process.
Relationships: Alec Hardy/Ellie Miller, Ellie Miller & Tom Miller (Broadchurch)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 186





	VPN and Icognito

**Author's Note:**

> Aight this is just my gratuitously self-indulgent series 3 "fix it". 
> 
> Imagine that Chibnall had been forced to wear the infamous slash goggles while writing and actually had some knowledge of how teenagers use the internet.

With fury simmering hot in her chest and more harsh words biting at the back of her throat, Ellie shoves her way through the crowd and out of the school, Tom trudging apathetically along behind her.

The car park is blessedly empty of adults, no other parents to witness their shameful exit.

“Bloody stupid idiot boy,” she grumbles to herself as she rummages impatiently in her handbag for her car keys. The sodding things are caught on the plastic of a bag of travel tissues, catching on the other detritus a working mum is forced to keep in her possession too as she tries to rip them free.

“Porn!” She shouts aggrieved again as she finally wrestlers the blighters free and stabs at the unlock button, jerking on the car door handle. “At school!?”

Tom doesn’t answer and continues to stare mulishly at his feet, resentment evident in every taut line of his body. 

“For goodness sake Tom!” She sighs at a more moderate volume as she slides into the driver’s seat. “You’re fifteen! Surely you know what Pornhub and incognito mode are!”

With an expression like a deer caught in the headlights, Tom halts in his tracks, one foot in the passenger footwell and the other on the tarmac of the carpark. The shoulder inside the car twitches slightly as Ellie stares at him with her eyebrows raised pointedly, but the silence between them only thickens.

“Look,” she sighs again, aggravation making the sound gravelly even as she tries to force herself to be more outwardly calm. “I’m not angry with you for watching porn. You’re a teenager, it’s what you do.”

“You’re not?” Tom asks faintly as he finally climbs the rest of the way in and tugs the door shut behind him. He’s gone back to staring anywhere but her, but at least he looks less like he’s about to bolt. “But you said- you yelled that you didn’t want people thinking that sort of thing was allowed at home!”

“I’m angry because you think it’s okay to wave it around in school corridors and share it around with god knows who!” Ellie bites out. “You bloody well know how I feel about consent and privacy Tom Miller! And I know we both hate it and want to forget about the whole shit show, but your arse of a father has dropped a reputation on our heads that neither of us deserve. All those teachers back there? _Like father, like son_ is what’ll be going through all their heads right now.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters unconvincingly. 

“You will be,” she grumbles back as she stabs the keys into the ignition and twists them. “You’ve got until we get home to delete anything off of your phone you don’t want me to see and to change the lock code to something you don’t mind me knowing. Then you’re handing it over and not having it back for two weeks.”

“Mum!” Tom immediately protests, his head snapping up despite what she thinks are actually very generous terms. Three years, two police technology courses and a whole lot of desperate googling for single mum advice ago and she would have just confiscated the device straight off for an indefinite amount of time. 

“One word of complaint out of you and the actual grounding part of the consequences you’ve earned will last more than the five days I had planned,” She warns sternly, clicking her seatbelt on and stomping the clutch down with her left foot so she can shift into reverse. “And don’t think those are the only two repercussions coming your way either.”

“Fine,” he huffs with obvious distaste as he does his own seatbelt up and starts rapidly scrolling through the menus on his phone.

Tearing her eyes away from the blasted thing, she grits her teeth and backs out of the parking space.

* * *

_My son is a blithering idiot with the common sense of a limp noodle. Can I kill him?_

The text she sends to Hardy is impulsive and will probably come back to bite her, but it does make her feel a little bit more braced and ready to face her bigoted and backward father.

She’s already sent Tom inside with instructions to lock his laptop and bring it down to the kitchen table. But knowing that her dad would be on her like a shot as soon as she stepped through the front door, demanding to know why Tom was home from school and ill-tempered about it, she’d taken a moment to mentally compose herself by the car first.

After several minutes have passed there is still no reply forthcoming though, so she shoves her own phone back in her pocket and squares her shoulders.

“What’s all this Ellie!?” her dad blusters at her before she’s even managed to shut the door behind her. “You’re not expecting me to babysit Tom for free too are you!?”

“Well aside from the fact that he’s old enough not to need babysitting, I can hardly take him to work with me can I,” she grits out as she tosses her keys in the bowl at the bottom of the stairs and strides towards the kitchen. Unfortunately, her father follows doggedly at her heels. 

“Just take him back to school! It’s what them teachers are paid to do!”

“He’s been suspended dad,” she grunts, slamming a mug down on the worktop and reaching to flick the kettle on. “He’s not allowed to be at school.”

“Back in my day you just got a good hiding for being a little shit in class and you quickly learnt not to be one,” her dad mutters. “And none of this sending them home to relax as a punishment either, expecting parents and grandparents to pick up their slack.”

“It’s 2016, not 1816,” she replies exasperatedly. “We’ve moved on and improved society a bit since then.”

_Mostly_ she adds to herself silently, thinking bitterly about poor Trish and her new case.

“Doesn’t look like much of an improvement to me,” is grumbled at her as the kettle begins to boil vigorously. “All these immigrants-”

“Don’t!” she cuts him off with another vigorous bang of her mug on the worktop. “I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want the kids hearing it. Mum didn’t like your opinions and neither do I. So can it”

David throws his hands up with an eye roll, a quip about free countries obviously on the tip of his tongue. Before he can vocalise it though, Ellie grabs her now finished mug of tea (sans milk unfortunately) and pushes back past him, yelling up the stairs as she goes.

“Tom I haven’t got all day!” she hollers impatiently. “Get down here with that computer!”

“I’m trying mum! Fred’s under my bed!” comes the annoyed sounding reply a second later.

Offering up a silent prayer for patience, she swigs a too hot mouthful before shouting again.

“Then leave him there and go back for him after you’ve brought your stuff down!”

There’s a loud clunk and a long, muffled peal of toddler giggles.

“He’s got my nerf gun!” Tom calls indignantly. “And he’s got jam on my duvet!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she mutters quietly in despair, realising she’s going to have to go up there herself.

* * *

_Bit harsh. Wee Fred’s only three. Hurry up, trying to get preliminary forensics._

It’s the longest text she’s ever gotten from Hardy. She’s lucky if she gets more than a one-word reply usually. 

_(“fancy going to chippy after this report is submitted?” “No.”)_  
 _(“go for ur checkup u wanker. Your GP rang me during dinner. Me!” “Rebooked.”)_  
 _(“Freddie just introduced himself to a new friend as ‘Wee Fred’. You’re a curse_ 😂” _“That’s his name.”)_  
 _(I swear I’ve looked all over your bloody desk and I can’t see the damn thing! Where have you put it!” “Drawer.”)_

Despite this ceaseless brevity, he’s obsessed with correct grammar and punctuation. God forbid she forget a capital letter or use an abbreviation. She used _wtf_ once after learning it’s meaning from Tom and well… Hardy didn’t stop grumbling about it for three weeks.

So with Fred clinging gleefully to her legs with his damp, now-jam-free hands, she rolls her eyes fondly while composing her reply. 

_I’m trying you knob. And Tom’s the dipshit, not Fred obviously you twit. Been suspended. Will explain when I get back to th office._

She wishes text messages came with read receipts like Facebook messenger does these days but given that Hardy’s more likely to win “Britain’s most smiley man” than join social media, she’ll have to do without. Miserable git won’t even download WhatsApp, let alone set up a basic Facebook profile. 

Once again, no reply is quickly forthcoming so she shakes her head and nudges her underwear drawer shut with her knee; Tom’s phone and laptop are stashed in the bottom, where she knows he won’t go looking out of sheer embarrassment regardless of how desperate he is for his technology.

“Come on then my young man,” she smiles down at her youngest, who giggles again and mushes his face into her thigh some more. “Let’s go inflict the brick of doom on your brother and then I’m off back to work yes?”

“Dooooooom,” Fred draws out with a wide grin, his blonde curls ruffling as he bounces.

* * *

“Ack, took you long enough,” Hardy grouses when she finally nudges her way into his office. 

“Terribly sorry,” she deadpans without a single ounce of apology in her voice. “My eldest was showing porn to his friends on his phone in a crowded hallway right in front of his maths teacher.”

Hardy blinks slowly before his usual scowl settles back onto his face.

“He shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Nooooo, really?” Ellie drawls sarcastically. “God, you must be a top-notch father with insights like that!”

“Oh piss off Miller,” he mumbles, shoving ineffectively at a stack of report print outs on the end of his desk. “Did you at least take his phone off ‘im?”

“Yes obviously. Gave him an old Nokia brick with a 100 mins on the sim though just in case there’s an emergency. Only numbers in it are yours, mine, and Beth’s.”

“What? What’s he need my number for?”

“Did you literally blank out the part where I _just_ said in case of emergency?”

“Well that’s what he’s got yours and Latimer’s numbers for,” Hardy complains, rubbing a hand over his eyes, glasses balanced precariously on his forehead. 

“You know what, I’m not having this argument with you sir,”

“It’s not an argument!”

“Shut up and tell me where you are with chasing forensics.”

* * *

* * *

Work today has been… draining.

She loves her job, loves helping people and giving back to the community. Loves knowing that people are out there feeling at least a little bit safer because of the service that she and her fellow officers provide.

She doesn’t like that most wrongs can’t be righted though. That sometimes even providing justice for the victim is beyond their reach. 

She hopes that they’ll be able to give Trish Waterman justice, but she also knows that she’s been wronged in a way that will never be righted no matter what they do. She hates that she and so many others will have to live with the damage done to them. 

“Come on sir, time to call it a night and get some shut eye. Come back with clear heads and fresh eyes tomorrow.”

Hardy grunts at her in a tone she’s learnt to recognise as reluctant agreement and drops the folder he was rereading for the sixth time back onto his desk. 

“Fine,” he huffs as well as he leans back in his chair, back cracking loud enough to make her wince. “S’time?”

“Just gone ten,” she shrugs, tilting to lean against his office doorframe with her arms crossed. “Kids better be in bed when I get home or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Daisy should’ve just gotten in too,” he yawns as he stands. “Went out with some mates. Saw her at four though.”

“You let her stay out until 10 on a school night!?” 

“She’s in sixth form,” he waves away. “And it’s Thursday tomorrow; no classes for her ‘til after lunch.”

“She’s still a kid though. And with… this case you know.”

“I already gave the safety in numbers talk this afternoon,” he mumbles as he grabs his flimsy jacket from off the hook to her left. “And reminded her that I would drop everything to come pick her up if she needed me. Can’t mother hen her to death _all_ the time, much as I’d like to.”

“No, you’re right,” Ellie sighs in concession as she backs away from the door to collect her own overcoat. “Just don’t like to think about my own kids growing up I guess. ‘Specially with Tom being such an immature thoughtless twat today.”

“He’ll be alright,” he gruffs at her as they stride towards the stairs. “Head’s a bit messed up, but his heart’s there.”

“Oi! His head is fine thank-you very much!” she protests, slapping the back of her hand against his bony shoulder. “He’s not a loony!”

“That’s not what I meant an’ you know it Miller,” he scowls, Scottish burr thickening with agitation. 

“Better bloody not have been,” she huffs in indignation as they step out into the chill night sea air.

* * *

* * *

Fred is out cold, and Tom does little more than grunt at her from his bed when she checks on them before retreating to her own room.

As she lies there staring up into the darkness, an idea forms in her head.

* * *

Of course, all thoughts of Tom related ideas go out the window when Trish calls her at gone one in the morning about a memory. With a heavy but insistent heart, she drags herself out of bed and into clothes, and then fumbles her way out to the car.

* * *

As expected, when she arrives Hardy is not only still awake but also still fully dressed and clearly hasn’t even attempted to get some sleep. Their conversation about the initial forensics report is laden with resignation and woven with an undercurrent of disgust. 

A sexual predator.

In their town.

In the wake of that revelation, she decides to once again leave her Tom problem to the morning and the emotionally steading effect of daylight.

* * *

Ellie barely gets another hour of sleep before she gives it up as a bad job and pulls a fresh set of clothes on. Tom is clearly dead to the world if the snoring echoing through his door is any indication, but Fred is sat upright in his new “big boy” bed when she pokes her head around the door despite the early hour.

“What are you doing awake sweetie?” she asks him softly in a high pitch voice.

“Mummy!” he giggles back to her, his arms coming up expectantly.

Padding quietly across his small room in her socks, she scoops him up and settles him on her hip.

“You’re getting so big!” she praises, thinking wistfully about how true that is. Soon she won’t be able to carry him around for more than a couple of minutes at a time.

“’m hungry,” the young boy whines in her ear as she heads back onto the landing towards the stairs.

“Well how about I find us both some cereal and then you can have another nap?” she suggests as she trudges downwards and then turns towards the back of the house. “Fancy some coco pops hmm?”

“Chocola’e monkey man!” Fred agrees with a wiggle, and Ellie has to hastily adjust her grip to stop him from falling to the floor. Turning to perch him on the edge of the worktop next to her but keeping one arm around his chest to secure him in place, she reaches up into a top cupboard and pulls down a couple of bowls.

Outside, the first rays of dawn begin to pierce the darkness.

* * *

She trudges around the estate house’s gardens for a good couple of hours helping out SOCO before Hardy shows up. The paper cup of takeaway coffee he hands her has never been more welcome. 

She’s not in the least bit surprised that he got even less sleep than she did.

* * *

* * *

Another long stressful day ends.

She’s only argued with Hardy half a dozen times despite the pressure they’re all under though, so it could have been worse. They got the ABE interview done, and she didn’t slap the new cocky DC despite how much she wanted to.

“Please don’t say I told you so,” Hardy drawls, slouching in his desk chair, glasses dangling from one hand. 

“Well we couldn’t delay getting her evidence any longer,” Ellie shrugs, wishing it wasn’t true but knowing that it was. She still feels terrible for having to put Trish Waterman under that pressure, despite the cagey way the interview ended.

“Why does she not want to tell us who she slept with that morning, how does that make sense to her?” Hardy asks with clear irritation. “Why’d she not tell us before hand?”

Ellie doesn’t have an answer for that.

“Do you believe it was a stranger she met on a dating app?” She replies instead, mind tumbling over possibilities. She doesn’t believe that’s who Trish met with and she doubts Hardy does either. 

He huffs, a mixture of exasperation and disbelief.

“Do you?” 

And no, she doesn’t but-

“Why would she lie?” 

Why _would_ she lie? Ellie thinks she is -she wouldn’t be so defensive about it otherwise- but the question still has to be asked.

“See now I’m thinking,” Hardy replies, clearly on the same wavelength as her, “what else isn’t Trish telling us?”

“Well,” she shrugs again, thinking of her miscreant son back home, “the truth will out eventually.”

“I bloody well hope so. Sooner we nick this bastard, the better for everyone.”

“Come on, change of topic before we start going in circles,” Ellie suddenly insists, shoving herself to sit more upright. “I need a favour from you.”

“Oh god, now what?” Hardy groans with obvious trepidation. Probably thinking she’s about to ask him to talk to someone, or god forbid, _be sociable._

“I haven’t even asked yet and you’re already moaning like I just announced your death sentence,” she complains. “Relax, I just want to know if you’ve still got them cyber training modules from last autumn on your computer.”

“What for?” he waves back, glasses once again tapping atop a stack of card files, held loosely in one hand.

“Tom obviously,” she says while pulling a face. “There was a set of courses on sex workers, identifying non-consensual porn, and handling underage abuse victims.”

“Bit heavy for a fifteen-year-old init?” Hardy frowns. 

“If he’s old enough to go googling for dirty vids, then he’s old enough to learn what’s appropriate and what’s not,” she insists. “I wish he were a couple years older, but this is the hand I’ve been dealt. At least this way I’ll knows he’s being responsible while he’s… you know what, not going to say it.”

“Thanks for that mental image Miller,” Hardy grimaces hard. She doesn’t blame him; Tom being _her_ underaged son is making it even _worse_ for her.

“Bloody technology,” she grumbles. “I’m sure parenting was easier before everyone and their dog had their heads jammed into the internet. Twenty years ago and I could have just confiscated his dirty mag stash and be done with it. Now I gotta be all… Considerate and socially progressive. Like, I don’t want him to think body confidence is a bad thing you know? Nowt wrong with sex so long as it’s fully consensual and he should learn that. But he’s only _fifteen.”_

“Age of consent is sixteen in the UK,” Hardy breathes. “Less than six months ‘til he’s of age.”

“Bloody well should be twenty-one in my opinion.” She mumbles back. “Just look for them courses for me while I go make another brew.”

* * *

A threatening text, a drive out to Trish’s, and a return to the station later and Ellie is dead on her feet. So’s Hardy, not that he’ll admit it. 

He’s _microwaving_ tea for fuck sake. Pouring upcapped milk into it and stirring it with the handle of a used butter knife. He’s a bloody walking disaster who needs to stop thinking about the case for five chuffin’ minutes and go get some rest.

And to stop ignoring her pleas for them to leave, asking yet more questions and mulling over theories instead of acknowledging what needs to happen.

“I’ve got to go home,” she repeats exhaustedly _again_ when he finally shuts up and turns and leans against the edge of the sink draining board, staring blankly into space.

He doesn’t move or reply as she gives up and marches towards the office exit, but she wasn’t expecting a response anyway.

* * *

She makes it as far as the front desk before muttering _sodding shitface_ to herself and turning around to go back up to the CID.

* * *

“Get your coat,” she demands authoritatively as she strides back into the office’s kitchenette. Hardy hasn’t moved from his zoned out lean next to the microwave, mug of over stewed tea still gripped tightly in one hand.

“Thought you were going home?” he asks quizzically with a small startled jump, lukewarm liquid sploshing over his fingers. He follows her back into the main room wearily, wiping tea off himself with his tie.

“Look I know you,” she clips out as she quickly bustles into his office and grabs his work laptop and bag. “You’ll sit around here stewing in your own misery for another couple of hours and then when you finally do crawl home, you’ll mull over the case files for half the night until you’re so exhausted you fall asleep with your head on your coffee table. And then I’ll have to deal with your crankier than usual arse all day on top of chasing down leads and reminding everyone that Trish is a _human_ not a statistic. So get your bloody coat and keys while I call Daisy for you.”

“Daisy-? What-?” he splutters.

“You’re coming back to mine so that I can force you to get at least _some_ sleep. Daisy’s coming over so that she’s not all alone in that house of yours all night while some despicable man is prowling around _my_ town targeting innocent women. Coat. Get it!”

* * *

Hardy mutters to himself for the entire duration of the walk across town, quietly insisting that they could have taken his car despite the fact that she stopped listening to him at least fifteen minutes ago. 

Actually, he seems to be going on about her orange raincoat now instead. He’s fond of that topic, even three years after his initial rant about its appropriateness. Or lack thereof in his opinion.

“I bet Fred will be happy to see you!” she cuts across him with forced cheer after enduring another five minutes of grumpiness. Thank god they’re almost to her house; one more bout of complaining about sand in his porch and she really _would_ have to slap him. 

“He’s three, doesn’t know any better,” Hardy mumbles, his shoulders hunching. 

“Well he likes his uncle Alec so make sure you live up to his expectations,” she grins, nudging her shoulder into his. “Give him a hug, tell him he’s grown. Hold all the toy cars he’ll no doubt shove at you. He’s well into his toy cars at the minute. Full blown obsession almost.”

“Cars,” Hardy says tonelessly as they pass the end of the hedge lining her driveway. 

“You know, the little matchbox ones,” she enthuses (tries to enthuse?). “Doesn’t matter how fancy they are so long as he can push them round the floor making vroom noises.”

“Daisy liked Sylvanians,” he says quietly, almost apropos of nothing. 

“Oooo Beth had a load of the rabbit ones as a kid. Not sure if she gave them to Chloe permanently or if they’re back in her loft. Maybe she’s saving them for Elizabeth now? Bless that little girl’s heart, she’s growing like a weed!”

By the end of her sentence, she’s managed to jam her key into the new yale lock she had installed after they chased Joe out of town and gotten the door open. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the TV drifting out of the front room, and only the landing light seems to be on.

“Guess you get out of Fred duty,” Ellie huffs with a smile quietly. “Looks like dad has managed to get him to bed already.”

“It is nine-thirty,” Hardy points out, his voice also hushed. 

“He’s going through a stage of irregular sleeping at the minute,” she murmurs as she hangs her coat up and kicks her shoes off. “Up half the night, asleep half the day. Doing my best to get him back to normal people hours but it’s hard when I’m not here half the time.”

“Ack, I’m sure he’ll be fine Miller.”

“That you Ellie?” her dad suddenly calls from the direction of the living room. Rolling her eyes over how long it took him to notice her arrival, she steps away from Hardy and heads on through to answer him.

“Yeah, and my boss is here so play nice,” she greets her father, smiling at Tom who is flopped sideways over the armchair with a GCSE physics revision guide and a miserable look.

“Alec,” Tom grunts his own greeting when the man in question slinks in behind her, shoulders still hunched and tense. Hardy’s grimace tightens for a second as it always does when her kids use his first name, but he simply nods back with a low grunt.

“Thought you promised not to bring work home,” her dad complains while Hardy continues to hover awkwardly behind her. 

“I haven’t,” she huffs, grabbing her uneasy boss’ forearm and tugging towards the sofa. Once she’s managed to yank him round despite his reticence, she pushes his shoulder and he folds into the end seat with a huff. “Actually, s’why he’s here. So he _can’t_ carry on working and drag me into it.”

“Christ Miller, you’re making me sound like a slave driver.”

“Don’t act like one then!” she laughs as she skips on through to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle and two red wine glasses.

* * *

“S’late, Daisy and I should head on home,” Hardy yawns just as 11pm is creeping up on them. 

Ellie had temporarily lifted Tom’s Xbox ban so that he and Hardy’s daughter could play. The two teenagers have been sprawled on the rug for the last hour, some shoot ‘em up on split screen mode. Ellie hadn’t expected Daisy to be the least bit interested, but she seems to be just as in to it as Tom is. And if her boy’s complaints are anything to go by, she’s just as good at it as he is too.

“That would defeat the purpose of you coming over in the first place,” she yawns back as she stumbles to her feet. “S’hang on and I’ll grab some spare bedding from the airing cupboard.”

“Aw Miller…” she hears him start to complain quietly as she tiptoes upstairs so as to not wake Fred or disturb her dad (who had sleuthed off to bed in a huff within 5 minutes of Daisy being dropped off). Ignoring him, she quickly pulls down the vacuum pack bag with the spare single duvets in it, as well as the good airbed, a couple of pillows, and two sets of single bedding. 

Trudging back downstairs, she drops the bag next to Tom’s head and then throws a pillow and pale pink pillowcase at Hardy with a meaningful look. 

“Daisy you want to stay in here with your Dad or join Fred? He might stomp on you in the middle of the night though, or insist on getting into bed with you.”

“Sounds better than risking Dad’s snoring,” the sixteen-year-old smirks over her shoulder.

“Oi!” Hardy protests as struggles with the pillow. Ellie notes with silent exasperation that he’s trying to pull the case on sideways, such that the seam is running along the _front_ of the pillow.

“You snore like a petrol generator,” Daisy deadpans. “A full-on lumberjack chainsaw roar. A chorus of angry screaming toads.”

“Glad to know I’m so loved and appreciated,” Hardy grumbles, tossing the mangled pillow aside. 

“Don’t worry, Tom sounds like a freight train when he’s sleeping too,” Ellie grins wickedly. “You’ll fit right in.”

“Mum!” Tom squeals, his face reddening.

* * *

* * *

She’s awoken the next morning by Fred gleefully slapping his tiny hands onto her face.

“Oh Freddie,” she moans unhappily as a bony knee stabs into her bladder too, his body flopping on top of hers like an angular lead weight. 

“Good morning mummy!” he chirps cheerfully, still mushing his pudgy little paws into her cheeks. “Uncle Awec made eggies!”

“You’re supposed to be in bed still sweetie,” she rasps, peering at her alarm clock. 06:22 blinks at her in red LED as she squints through the sleep grit in her eyes. Less than 10 minutes before she would have had to get up anyway unfortunately.

“But was hunger!” Fred pouts as he wiggles atop her.

“Hungry. I was hungry,” she corrects automatically through a jaw cracking yawn. “Did you at least say thank you to Uncle Alec?” Gods, she hopes her little miscreant didn’t wake the poor man up. 

“Uh-huh,” he nods vigorously. “Pwease and thank ‘ou.”

“Good boy,” she praises, forcing herself to sit upright. Fumbling for her phone while looping an arm around Fred’s back, she stabs the lock button until the dull glow of the backlight reveals no new messages and only one pointless marketing email from eBay. 

“Come on then,” she sighs, “let me up mini man. Mummy’s got to get dressed and rescue Uncle Alec from his own grumpiness.”

“Grumpy grumpy grumpy,” Fred giggles, screwing his face up into an imitation gurn just like she taught him too.

* * *

Hardy is propped up in a half sprawl on the sofa when she stomps down the stairs ten minutes later. He’s folded the duvet up with the covers still on and tossed the pillow atop it, but he’s got the bottom sheet thrown over his legs still, and a mug of steaming tea grasped loosely in one hand.

“Morning!” she exclaims chipperly, knowing full well that he hates morning people.

“Miller,” he grunts back, his eyes bleary.

“Freddie says thank-you for cooking for him,” she smiles sweetly as she sweeps passed in search of her own supply of morning caffeine. 

“Wee man wanted eggs.” 

“Hope he didn’t wake you to get them,” she calls back from the kitchen. He says something in reply, but it’s too quiet and grumbled for her to be able to make the words out. 

“What? Can’t hear you!”

There’s a muffled huff and a groan, and then she hears heavy footsteps stomping her way despite the muffling effect of the carpeting. 

“I said I was mostly awake anyway,” the man yawns thickly as he props himself up in the kitchen doorway, crinkled shirt untucked from his equally wrinkled trousers, his tie for once nowhere to be seen. “Heard him come down th’ stairs.”

“Well at least he didn’t wake Daisy up too,” she sighs as she spoons sugar into her mug. “One grumpy sleep deprived Hardy is more than enough thank-you.”

“She’s’got school. Have to get her up soon anyway so she can got get her stuff from home first.”

“Mmm should make Tom crawl out of bed too. Get him started on those training courses, task him with entertaining Fred ‘til Dad gets up. Toast first though?”

“Please,” he grunts, still looking like a disgruntled underfed bear. 

She pats his shoulder and starts rummaging for some sliced bread that hasn’t been opened and left to go stale for three days.

* * *

Ellie finds herself making more eggs for Tom and Daisy once the two of them have been roused by a slightly hyperactive Fred. Hardy retreats to the table in the front room with a fresh mug of tea and a plate of hot toast as soon as the two teens start good-naturedly ribbing each other over some football player Ellie’s never heard of. Deciding that her boss had the right idea in running away, she grabs her phone once she’s plated breakfast up and slides into the chair next to him to peruse the BBC News app and check the local twitter feeds.

“What do you think of all this leaving the EU malarkey?” she eventually asks around her own mouthful of scrambled egg.

“S’just politics,” Hardy grunts back. “M’Glaswegian; don’t care so long as the Tories know to fuck off.”

“You’ll be a remain voter when we get that far then,” she chuckles. “Me too probably, looking at all this. Politicians are all a bit of dick though, aren’t they? Regardless of which party they belong too.”

“Aye,” he grumbles, clearly uninterested in the topic. She takes mercy on him and scrolls down further, looking for a different topic. 

“Ooo look! Looks like we might actually win the six nations this year!” she exclaims happily as she comes across the sports updates. She couldn’t give a toss about footy, much to Tom’s disappointment, but Rugby at least provides some nice eye candy.

“What’s this we?” Hardy protests, his head snapping up. “I’m bloody Scottish! Our lads are better than all you English riff raff!”

“Oh god, don’t let him start Ellie,” Daisy suddenly whines, walking past behind them in her pyjamas. “He doesn’t give a fucking shit about sports _or_ patriotism until someone mentions English sports teams. Then suddenly he’s waving flags and extolling the virtues of haggis or neeps and tatties.”

“Oi! Language young lady!” Hardy complains with an outraged look.

“English!” She snarks with a cheeky grin before darting into the hallway and up the stairs. “Not Scottish!”

“Bloody ‘ell,” he groans, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “I cannae cope with this much sarcasm this early.”

“Muuuum!” Tom yells from the kitchen. “Fred’s got your kitkats!”

“Aw shit!” she swears herself, stumbling to her feet quickly.

* * *

Half an hour later, and she pulls her car onto Hardy’s drive.

Pulling the hand break on and sliding the gearstick back into neutral, she turns to Hardy in the passenger seat, lightly punching his shoulder to knock him out of his doze.

He doesn’t react beyond an annoyed huff.

Daisy snorts at him from the backseat before unclipping her seatbelt and starting to clamber out. 

“Ack I’m soooo tired and grumpy!” she drawls out in an impressive imitation of a Scottish accent, shoving the car door shut with a cheeky snigger.

“Alright, alright,” Hardy mumbles thickly as he rolls his neck, squinting at his daughter’s retreating back with one unimpressed eye. “I’m getting out. Jus’ gimme a minute.”

* * *

Ellie loiters in the Hardy’s front room while he grabs a shower and a fresh set of (hopefully ironed) clothes. Daisy has already collected her school bag and left again, so she contents herself by nosing through the stack of investigative forensics magazines she finds shoved in basket next to the TV. 

“We’re gonna be late if you don’t get your arse in gear!” she eventually yells when she’s flicked through Daisy’s A-level psychology notepad for the second time. 

“Oh aye I know!” she hears back, followed by a crash and a stream of swearing.

“You alright in-?” she starts to ask, cutting off when a sharp series of five raps sound on the glass of the door behind her. “-I’ll get it!” she finishes instead after a short pause.

Turning round, she’s confronted by three teenagers, no more than 17, one of whom she vaguely recognises as Tom’s new dodgy mate she’d rather he stopped hanging around with. She won’t tell him that outright though; her poor boy tolerates enough shite from other teenagers without her trying to dictate who he can and can’t talk to on top of that. 

“Can I help you?” she asks as politely as she can bring herself to once she’s managed to slide the patio door open.

“Is Daisy in?” the one at the front asks, leaning sideways to peer past her. 

“And you are…?” She retorts with, sure that Hardy will have no idea who they are either.

“You with her dad?” back left blurts with a cocky eyebrow raise, ignoring her question. 

“Who are you?” she repeats, raising her own eyebrows.

“She’ll be at the park,” unsuitable-mate chips in, _still_ not answering her damn question.

“She’ll be at school actually,” she bites out, growing more annoyed by the second. 

“Who’s there?” Hardy suddenly injects, walking from the back of the house now fully dressed, his hair neatly combed and his shirt and tie less crumpled than usual, if still sloppily worn. He stops just behind her right shoulder, looking at the group of three lads with a relatable amount of distrust.

“Wouldn’t I like to know,” Ellie harrumphs.

“You Daisy’s dad?”

And oh, here we go again. Bloody teenagers. Worse than twitchy criminals some of them. 

“Who’s asking?” Hardy demands in that “I’m an annoyed detective” tone that he usually saves for the interview rooms. “What’s your names so I can tell her you were asking for her.”

“Just tell her the boys stopped by.”

“The _boys?”_ Ellie scoffs incredulously. 

“Right,” Hardy scowls. “The boys.”

“Thanks. Daisy’s dad,” back left smirks again as they turn to walk off.

“Cocky little shits aren’t they?” Ellie huffs as they watch them saunter away. “I hope Tom’s not like that when I’m not around to judge him for it.”

“Tommy lad’s more into quiet digital warfare than open rudeness to adults and strangers,” Hardy grunts as he retreats back into the house.

“Thanks,” Ellie drawls sarcastically as she also grabs her coat and bags. “Really reassuring you are.”

* * *

* * *

They spend the morning first trying to pinpoint the source of the threatening text Tish received, and then bouncing around town talking to potential suspects and witnesses; anyone who was at the party but was working rather than an invitee. 

It’s almost 3pm before she manages to convince Hardy that they should stop and have some lunch, and even then, all he’ll concede to is a quick pop into the Tesco Metro and a ten minute pause to eat on the beach’s tide wall. 

“Oh seriously though, please eat,” she wheedles as she unsuccessfully tries to shove one of her scotch eggs at the man.

“I’m not hungry,” he replies listlessly, squinting into the sunlight, tie wafting gentle in the breeze. 

“That’s why you’re so tired,” she points out meaningfully as she goes to take a bite. If he won’t eat it, she bloody well will.

“I’m not tired!” he protests with a huff.

“You look terrible,” she retorts, hoping to goad him into eating just to spite her.

“Oh leave me alone and eat your stupid scotch egg,” he near-whines, probably having caught onto her less than subtle plan. His lips twitch as he says it though, a smile threatening to break his stony, aggravated demeaner, so she smiles herself around her mouthful and decides to keep on at him.

“You’re worse than Fred being confronted with a spear of asparagus,” she snorts once she’s swallowed. “No mummy, it’s green and evil!” she mimics, elbowing Hardy in the side companionly.

“Not surprised he wouldn’t touch it if you’re the one who cooked it,” he grunts, scowl deepening.

“I have got much better at cooking this last couple of years thank you very much!”

“Oh aye, only in danger of burning down the kitchen every other meal now instead of all of them.”

“You’re a right git, you know that?” she sighs, fishing one handed in her shopping bag for her -bottle of Diet Coke. She pulls the bag of ready salted crisps out too and tosses them into Hardy’s lap despite his hunched over posture.

They almost slide to the floor, but he grabs them at the last instant, probably out of instinct more than any actual desire for the food.

“I told you I’m not hun-!”

“I don’t give a shit,” she smiles sweetly over him. “Eat before you keel over or I’ll report you to Wessex HR for self-induced ill health and they’ll force you on mandatory sick leave. _Again.”_

“That’s not a thing,” he scowls back, turning the bag of Walkers over to squint at the ingredients. “Christ how much salt is in these? I have a heart condition and they’re 70% sodium.”

“Oh so you might get your daily recommended amount for once then?”

“See, this kind of bullshit from you is why it took me so long to come back,” he grumbles.

“We’re finally going to talk about that are we,” she grins, brushing breadcrumbs off her fingers after swallowing another mouthful of egg. “Why _did_ it take you so long?”

“Oh for god sake, not this again,” he hisses, leaning back in irritation. 

“You’re the one who brought it up this time,” she smirks. “But seriously. Two years! No texts or emails, no calls…”

“I told you I lost my phone,” he injects over the end of her sentence.

“No you didn’t,” she scoffs playfully. 

“It had all your details in it!”

“Bollocks did it.”

“I’m here now aren’t I? I’m no good at… all _this_. This people stuff. Talking.”

“Oh I hadn’t noticed,” she grins as he finally opens the bag of crisps with a resigned sigh.

“I was trying to be there for Daisy,” he mumbles eventually, nibbling at one snapped off corner with a grimace. “But Tess didn’t want me around, and Daisy was arguing with her constantly even before she found out about her mum’s role in Sandbrook. And then her school mates found out too and all that old worst cop in Britain shite came up again. And I just thought maybe here… she’d have another chance. Like I had.”

“Well now that proves it,” she smiles teasingly. “Don’t hate it here after all, do you?”

“I do!” he smirks, staring off into the distance, crisp crumbs on his shirt. “Mostly.”

“You’re a good dad Hardy,” Ellie tells him warmly. “Daisy’s lucky to have you and you’re a good influence on my reprobates too.”

Hardy huffs and stares at his feet at that, hunching over again with familiar self-doubt. 

“Tom’ll be alright,” he reassures again, clearly trying to change the subject away from himself. “He’s just doing that pushing at boundaries thing. Testing the net’s there to catch him or whatever it’s called.”

“I bloody well hope that’s all it is,” she sighs. “Thanks for getting me them courses for him though. Forgot to say it this morning.”

“Don’t thank me until you know that Tom’s got the point of ‘em. The moral of the story and all that. We need more decent, understanding men in this world.”

“S’got under your skin, this case, hasn’t it?” Ellie asks, already knowing it’s true. 

“I just, I can’t… _understand_ the psychology of the man who does this sort of thing,” he shakes his head in reply. 

“You don’t have to understand them, you just have to nail the bastard,” Ellie tells him honestly, thinking that’s it’s actually a _good_ thing that he’s so clueless. It’s much harder to become someone like that if you don’t understand their motives or rationale. 

Hardy doesn’t reply, but he does look thoughtful.

* * *

* * *

The workday ends with a whiteboard list longer than both her arms added together and doubled. 

And with Hardy once again in what can only be described as a foul mood.

“Come on, lets grabs some chips,” Ellie sighs tiredly when she physically can’t force herself to cross reference interview statements anymore. “I’m bloody starving.”

“Do you ever stop eating?” Hardy asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh don’t be a knob,” she grumbles back. “You know damn well know I haven’t had anything since lunch.”

“Oh so the snickers bar Bob from uniform brought up here for you doesn’t count does it?” he shoots back wryly. “Or the banana you had just after five? And I suppose the half pack of digestives you forced me to share with you an hour ago also doesn’t count as eating either.”

“You’re a right prick, you know that?” she snips, trying not to laugh at his expression of disbelief. 

“So you keep insisting on telling me,” he sighs with an eyeroll. “Fine, come on. We can get enough for the bairns and plan tomorrow’s scene walk through with Trish Waterman round your dining table.”

“Right I see,” she replies shortly. “Suddenly gone from being a reclusive antisocial bastard to inviting yourself round for dinner have we?”

He looks at her blankly.

“You know, I literally never know what you want from me,” he complains, but all she can bring herself to do is return his eyeroll and start gathering her stuff together.

* * *

He follows her home muttering again, chip shop bags dangling from each hand. 

Despite his endless complaining, he’s a welcome presence by her side.

* * *

* * *

“Daisy set me up on a date. One of them Tinder thingies.”

The sentence comes out of nowhere. 

They’ve just got back from watching the charity footy match on the beach, and she’s gone to his office to ask after a surveillance request on Mayford – the creepy bastard with a previous for sexual assault that lives on the edge of town. She’s interrupting his latest diatribe on the despicableness of predatory men by ribbing about him about not having changed his clothes after she dropped him and Daisy back home last night when he just blurts it out.

“A date! My god, he does have a social life after all!” she laughs loudly, hoping that everyone out in the main office heard her through the open door. “When is it?” she asks excitedly.

“Tonight,” he bites his lip, looking slightly panicked.

“Is she fit?” she grins at him. 

“Fit!?” he splutters indignantly. “What are you, Daisy’s age? Using words like that?”

“Hardy’s got a cheeky date,” she sing-songs at him, thoroughly enjoying his total mortification. 

“I don’t want to go,” he mumbles into his hands. “It’s going to be so awkward.”

“Well tough shit,” she chuckles. “Bit of socialising for once will do you good.”

“I socialise!” he objects. “We’re…. friends? Work friends? We… socialise.”

“Of course we’re bloody friends!” she gasps, suddenly outraged. “What, you think I let just any old tosser sleep on my sofa while my kids are in the house? I let you see me in my jimjams! Freddie talks about you instead of his wanker of a father at nursery!”

“But you call me names!” he cringes with wide eyes. “And you wouldn’t let me give you a bloody hug! Insisted on a handshake!”

“That was three years ago you pillock! My bastard husband had just literally gotten away with murder and my teenage son was having an identity crisis!”

“Three years!? You’ve called me at least four different insults in the last minute alone!”

“Don’t deliberately misunderstand me, you Scottish arsehole!” she yells back, leaning over his desk with her hands planted in front on her. “I’m allowed to call you a knobish prickly wanker because it’s our thing, but I’ll damn well sock anyone else who does it!”

“Okay then!” he exclaims heatedly, hands twitching like he wants to throw them upwards in horror.

“I will!”

“Right!”

“Right in the nose!”

They pause, staring at each other intently.

Ellie bursts into laughter. 

“Oh you really are a clueless cockwomble,” she sniggers, straightening her spine with a crack. 

“Cockwomble,” Hardy muses with a small smile. “That’s a new one.”

“Just go on your stupid date you daft arse,” she chuckles at him with a shake of her head. “But I expect you round mine after so you can tell me about how awful it was. Red wine, kids in bed, Dad banished to the Legion for the night to have a few pints with his mates.”

“Yeah,” Hardy smiles gruffly. “Alright.”

* * *

She doesn’t remember about the open office door until every pair of eyes swivel to stare at her when she returns to her own desk.

_Fuck,_ she swears to herself as she stares back. 

_Fuck it_ she adds silently when the scrutiny and silent judgement she can feel radiating from them all doesn’t dampen her sudden good mood in the slightest.

* * *

* * *

“What are you doing with my phone!” Ellie snaps as she wanders into the front room to find Tom peering down at it.

“I’m sorry!” he cries, dropping it onto the desk next to the home computer in a hurry with wide eyes.

“You’re supposed to be doing the last one of those training modules Tom!” she shouts, snatching her phone back. “If I find out you’ve been…”

She trails off when she unlocks it to find an open text conversation in progress on a message app she didn’t know she had installed.

The recipient at the top reads _Alec Hardy._

“What’s this?” she demands in shock as she stares at the words on the screen.

_I wish mum would change all our surnames_ the latest sender messages says. 

_Tell her that then._ Says the last received reply.

“I just…” Tom stammers, his face heating red. “I wanted to talk to someone who understood! He offered… the other night when you made ‘im and Daisy stay here. I just…” 

“Oh Tom,” she sighs softly when he trails off again. 

Crouching down next to the desk chair, she grasps her son’s hands, holding his fingers gently in hers above his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he wobbles again, clearly trying not to let tears fall.

“I know I’m just your stupid mum, but I really did mean it when I said you could talk to me about these things honey,” she tells him quietly. “I know the other kids at school give you shit sometimes and that you just want to be normal like everyone else. But Tom, normal is so overrated. Normality is just some pre-packaged bullshit that the government and social media try to feed everyone. In this house we only consume home-grown free-range organic insanity okay?”

“You sound like a conspiracy theory nutter,” Tom chuckles wetly, releasing one of her hands to scrub his harshly over his eyes.

“Made you laugh though didn’t it?” she grins at him.

“Yeah,” he admits with a self-depreciating smile.

“Good. Now listen. I’m glad you found someone you can talk to about this stuff, okay? And I’m glad you chose someone I already trust. I’m a little annoyed that neither of you thought to mention it to me, but I understand why you didn’t. Hardy’s having his balls trapped in a vice for it, but you get a pass.”

“I made him promise not to tell you,” Tom mumbles nigh-on unintelligibly.

“I suspected as much immediately, but I’m still going to torture the grumpy arse for it.”

“He’s not that bad mum. Little bit stand offish, but he’s good with Fred. Better than me anyway.”

“ _Oi_ none of that! You _are_ good with your little brother and I’m very proud of that. I’m proud of _you._ Even when you go doing stupid shit like sharing porn in school corridors.”

“I won’t- I won’t do that again. I- Some of the stuff on these videos you got from work…” Tom shudders, his face screwing up in lieu of finishing his sentence. “I- I- googled a load of stuff about consent, and I found the government reporting website. The one for… you know, when there’s kids…”

“Lesson learnt?” she asks with a small smile and a quirked eyebrow.

Tom nods solemnly.

“Nothing outside of my bedroom or without incognito and a VPN on,” he mutters with obvious embarrassment. “Big sips of respecting women juice.”

“I have no idea what that last bit means but good. And Tom? I love you more than chocolate.”

“Love you too mum.”

* * *

* * *

She doesn’t get her evening of teasing Hardy over his date because she gets a text about DNA swabs before he makes it to her house. 

After another tiring late-night interview, they’re both too fed up and exhausted to do more than head to their separate homes and beds.

* * *

The DNA gets explained, but the case only seems to go downhill from there despite the growing number of leads they have and all the questions that are slowly getting answered. 

Suddenly they have multiple victims on their hands and not just the one.

Their predator just got upgraded to the status of serial rapist.

* * *

And then in the middle of the afternoon, when she’s finally managed to pop home to check on Fred and Tom. When she’s finally supposed to have an hour to breathe and surface before diving back into the growing horror of this case.

That’s when Hardy rings.

And not with more evidence or another lead.

* * *

“They took her phone,” the man spits down the open call. “They took her bloody mobile and went through her pictures Miller. There’s a photo of _my daughter_ that she took privately for her own confidence being sent around the youth of this bloody town against her will.”

“Oh those disgusting, cruel little bastards,” she gasps back. 

God, she hopes Tom hasn’t had anything to do with this or she’ll kill him all over again. Forgiveness rescinded once more. 

“Wait, those boys… the cocky little gobshites that showed up at your house the other morning. Is this what that was all about?”

“I’m gonnae find out which spineless little cretins are responsible for starting all this, and I’m going to put the fear o’ god and the law into them. Randgy wee mangled fudheads, the bloody lots of ‘em.”

Ellie’s heard a lot of vitriol come of the Scot’s mouth over the last three years, but this is the most heat she’s ever heard in his tone. Even when he was at the height of his Sandbrook induced mania two years back and thought everything was falling apart around his ears for the _second_ time, he hadn’t been channelling quite this much fury.

If he’s accent gets much thicker or his dialect any stronger, she won’t be able understand a word he’s saying.

“Can we get cyber to trace which phone or account the picture was sent to initially?”

“I don’t want this on the books Miller, my poor girl’s dealing with enough shite already without us having to do interviews an’ recordings and having the whole station knowin’. She’s sixteen for cryin’ out loud. So we do this on our own yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, got it.”

“Would you-” Hardy starts with obvious nerves, hesitant. “Would you be willing to talk to her? Only… I’m her Dad you know? She doesn’t want to show me her phone and I get that! I totally do! It’s her privacy and I wonna respect that, she’s nae a wee bairn no more but- I gotta know what we’re working with so I know who’s heads to bash in.”

“Course I can,” she tells him with a smile despite knowing he can’t see it.

“Thanks,” he sighs, obviously grateful. “Look, I’m gonna grab a map and make some marks for the case too. Can you be at mine in half an hour?”

“Yeah alrig- Oh. Oh you’ve put the phone down on me. Prat.”

* * *

* * *

A dog finds a football sock. 

They narrow down the list. Sixty-five becomes twenty-three with four main possibilities.

The farm store owner on that list bashes in the face of the garage mechanic also on that list. 

The farm store owner – one Ed Burnett - is brought in for questioning and several potentially case-related items are found in his shop and attached office. 

Finally, they might be getting somewhere.

Then of course it all goes to shit when the DC that’s been pissing Ellie off all week reveals her biggest fuck up of them all.

* * *

“I should have told you a while back,” Katie Harford near mumbles, her eyes wide with guilt.

“Told us what?” Hardy asks sternly in a voice full of concern.

“Ed Burnett’s my dad.”

“Tell me your kidding,” Ellie quietly demands as she feels her jaw go slack with shock.

There’s a pause.

Too long a pause.

“No,” Katie finally admits with a tremor.

The guy they have in custody, the farm shop owner-

“I didn’t think it mattered!” the young DC blurts out desperately over Ellie’s next disbelieving question.

“He’s a suspect!” Ellie cries angrily. “He was on your list!”

Next to her – next to both of them – Hardy stands with his head bowed, obviously gearing up for a serious outburst. The type where he’s all tightly controlled words and even tone. The type where only his necessary obsession with procedure will stop him from absolutely losing his shit with the DC completely.

And well, he doesn’t _quite_ go full eruption, but it’s a near thing.

* * *

“How could she be so stupid!?” Hardy repeats again, lying sideways on her sofa with Fred asleep on his chest, knees hooked over the arm and his socked feet dangling.

“I knew she was going to cause some shit,” Ellie sighs back, swigging another mouthful of the whisky her DI had brought with him. “Didn’t know what is was going to be, but she’s been rubbing me the wrong way since day one.”

“Bloody gold meeting in the morning and then this happens,” he groans, looking longingly at the bottle of Johnnie Walker black label on the coffee table. 

“Can’t believe I’m saying this after the week we’ve had, but I really hope it’s not Burnett now.”

“He’s our chief suspect Miller.”

“Yeah, and if he’s guilty the court case is gonna get tossed out on technicalities. Better if it’s not him and we have to spend another week digging through dodgy alibis and statements from liars.”

“God, don’t make me think about it,” Hardy draws out tiredly. “S’just… change the subject. How’s Tom doing?”

“Last day of being grounded tomorrow. Think my dad’s happy that he won’t be moping about the house for most of the day, but god knows what he’ll do instead. I just hope he was being honest when he said he’d learnt his lesson.”

“He’ll be fine Miller.”

“Yeah you’ve said that like a dozen times now,” She huffs, giving in to temptation and pouring them both another dram. “Just a shitty platitude at this point.”

“He’s a good lad though!”

“Oh you say that, but I know you’ve considered how he might be involved in the shit poor Daisy’s dealing with. How is she anyway?”

“Daisy? Miserable but that’s a given. Stayin’ at the Latimer’s tonight with Chloe tonight. Them grimy shithead lads won’t know to look for her there to bother her, and Chloe’s been good to her, looking out for her and all that. But nah, don’t think Tommy lad’s involved; he just had that shite on his phone because all the other kids were going on about it and he were curious and then fascinated. Thought it would net him cool points or whatever the kids call it these days.”

“Oh yeah that reminds me actually. Another gripe I’ve got with you, you knob jockey.”

“Oh now what?” Hardy groans deeply, probably thinking _there’s always something else with you Miller!_

“Messaging my boy behind my back are you? To _my_ phone! When he’s grounded!” she harrumphs.

“Oh Christ, I told him keeping it secret was a bad idea,” Hardy sighs, shifting Fred more squarely onto his sternum and then turning the boy’s head so that his sleep-slack face is resting flatter on his own shoulder. “I just… there’s so many arsehole men out there and I wanted… I thought it would be good if he knew he could talk to one who’s main fault is being a grouchy twat rather than a criminal scumbag. Didn’t think he would actually take me up on it, but he did so I tried to just listen and you know- He’s not _my_ lad but I’m still a parent you know?”

“Actually I’m mostly mad that you finally installed a decent messaging app and didn’t tell me. You’ve got no excuse now, what with this and Tinder- don’t groan at me, I haven’t forgotten to interrogate you about your date, I’m just saving it for when less crap is landing on us. But Line and Tinder! You’re getting WhatsApp finally and no complaining.”

“Ack, Millar,” he growls, tipping his head further back. “Tom installed the damn message app not me. And Daisy did the other one with the dating profile. I just did the texting bit once the match was already made.”

“Get out of here,” she gasps gleefully, scooting forward to the edge of the armchair, tumbler of whisky still in hand. “You let your teenage daughter do the swiping right!?”

“Well I didn’t know how it worked! Had a look myself now and sorted it out, but… Agh, I’m gonna delete the damn thing anyway.”

“Uh, no!” She grins maliciously, holding her hand out expectantly. “Give it here so I can look at the profile you let your _16-year-old set up!”_

“Oi you can sod off!” he exclaims, scooting as far back into the sofa as he can without tipping Fred off. 

“Alec Hardy- Wait, what’s your middle name so I can scold you properly?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Fucker. DI Alec Hardy, hand your phone over for best mate inspection immediately, lest your friendship contract be swiftly terminated.”

He blinks again, his eyes widening with his characteristic shock tell. 

“Best mate?” he repeats dumbly.

“I thought that was obvious shitface,” she snorts, giving up on the grabby hands and leaning back again. “Don’t think I’ve seen Beth as much in the last 5 years as time I’ve spent in your company in the six months alone.”

“Yeah but… we work together. Partners,” he frowns. “Couldn’t avoid each other if we tried.”

“Oh we could. We had it down to an art form when we first met, don’t you remember? We talked about work and sod all else, ‘cept when I bullied you into it. And now you’re on my sofa with my toddler on your chest after ten at night _of your own free will.”_

Hardy grunts in reluctant agreement. 

“Fine,” he mutters. “Best mates. Now hand me mi’ dram before I die of thirst.”

* * *

* * *

Ellie feels much better the next morning after she’s gotten to give Katie Harford a right good tongue lashing, Hardy a mostly silent pillar of support by her side. 

They continue to bitch about incompetence and entitlement as they saunter back along the seafront to the CID, which gives her a much-needed chance to clear her head ready to make the formal press statement at lunch time.

“Nah, I’m making it official,” Hardy jests as they climb back up the steps to the station main doors. “You’re on bollocking duty from now on while I stand and glower menacingly behind you.” 

“Well, you are good at glowering,” she smirks back, nudging him on the forearm with her elbow.

* * *

“Take an hour, go home for dinner,” Hardy grunts to her once the ordeal of the gold meeting is over and they’ve processed another bulk of paperwork as well as spoken with Burnett’s lawyer again. “Beth’s going to drop Daisy off here and then I’m taking her for fish and chips in town so you might as well take advantage too.”

“You sure?” she frowns. “Shouldn’t one of us stick around to hold the fort, ‘specially as we’re now down a DC and up two victims?”

“Eh, the uniforms can manage, and our DSI will still be here. Go on, get off.”

“Alright,” she grins, relieved. “I will do! Have fun with Dais’!”

* * *

“Saw you on the news earlier,” her Dad says mildly as they sit all sit at the dining table and take spoonfuls of beef casserole. “You looked terrible!”

She pulls a face at him, not at all impressed by his huff of laughter at the end of his words.

“Is it true mum?” Tom interrupts, quickly shooting a slightly annoyed look at his grandad she’s pleased to note. “That other women might have been attacked?”

“Yeah,” she confirms with an unhappy twist of her lips. “It’s possible.”

“You ask me,” David carries on, apparently oblivious to the disproval both she and Tom are radiating at his words, “everyone’s been raped these days. Or abused. One or the other.”

“No one is asking you dad!” she raises her voice, gravy dripping from her spoon as her hand clenches around it’s handle.

“Am I not allowed to have an opinion?” David protests with faux mildness.

“Not when it’s one like that,” Tom mumbles into his plate.

“Oh, Well then,” the older man frowns, his eyes narrow with disapproval and expression revealing that he’s gearing up for a lecture about respect for elders.

“It’s about consent,” Tom bites out before Ellie can cut in to do the defending for him. “You don’t even touch someone without their explicit permission first. Let alone go about doing stuff like this attacker.”

“Well said Tom,” Ellie nods approvingly. “These poor women shouldn’t have to be coming forward because they shouldn’t have been attacked in the first place. Men with opinions like yours dad, they’re the problem. Not the people who are brave enough, have enough courage to step forward and talk about their awful experiences.”

“Well now it sounds like you’re accusing _me_ of going out and taking advantage of random women,” David scoffs.

“You’re enabling it by victim blaming,” Tom bites off again, shoving his half-eaten plate away in disgust.

And gods, Ellie is so proud of her boy right now. 

“You know how old your grandson is dad?” she asks loudly, dropping her own spoon with a clatter and crossing her arms. “He’s fifteen. Fifteen years old and already proving to be a better man than you are.”

“Forgetting why he was suspended from school all week are we?” David continues in the same forced-modest tone as before. He then scoops up another spoonful of dinner like he hasn’t a care in the world which only makes Ellie’s teeth grind harder. 

“The difference is that Tom accepts when he’s done wrong and works to change and do better,” she snaps. “But actually, you’ve given me an idea. Come on Tom, after that little display of standing up for what’s right you’ve earned your phone back. Let’s pop upstairs and I’ll get it for you.”

“No mum it’s-” he starts to protest even though he’s trying not to smile and has already stood up.

“Nope.” She cuts over him. “Mind’s made up; I’m going to encourage that sort of behaviour and compassionate thinking. Chop chop, upstairs with you.”

* * *

It’s not until she’s standing over her open underwear drawer while Tom checks in on a napping Fred across the hall that a thought suddenly occurs to her.

“Tom?” she calls, careful not to wake the toddler by shouting too loud. “Where _did_ you get that porn from in the first place?”

There’s a pause while she listens to her eldest quietly shut Fred’s bedroom door and then step back across to lean against her doorframe. She grabs the confiscated smart phone while she waits, nudging the drawer shut with her shin. 

“Do you need to know?” Tom grimaces, the solemn look in his eyes making him seem older than his years despite the baggy hoody, flyaway hair, and the last, lingering childhood cheek chubbiness. “Only I’d rather not snitch. Not unless it’ll stop someone getting hurt.”

“I just wondered if you could trace the source of it back to an adult,” she shrugs, carefully trying to avoid pulling him into her open case. “Not many people have actual downloads of those sorts of videos these days, ‘specially not the hardcore amateur stuff you were given.”

“And what?” he frowns. “Those that do are more likely to be predators?”

“Other way round,” she frowns back herself. “Predators are more likely to have downloaded videos.”

“Michael Lucas,” he offers after a moment. “Michael gave it all to me. And… he said he got it off his dad.”

“Lucas?” she questions, the name ringing bells. “Does his dad drive a taxi?”

* * *

It’s another card in the growing deck, but when she gets back to the station after dinner (which she and Tom had microwave reheated and finished side by side in the kitchen, leaning on the worktops), it gets shoved aside in favour of dealing with the evidence and suspect right in front of them. 

The interviews with Ed Burnett drag on as these things tend to do – even more so than normal when they have to take a drive out to his house (search warrant still in hand) and locate the clothes he wore to the party. And then again when tech gets back with the contents of the man’s phone, revealing hundreds upon hundreds of stalker-like photos…

And just when that line of enquiry finally stalls out for the time being, another tip comes in from Trish herself and they have to trek out to the high school again to confiscate the purloined laptop that her husband had helped himself to in the middle of the night. 

Basically, it’s once again very late and very dark outside by the time she and Hardy throw in the towel and head home for the night.

* * *

* * *

“What’s this?” she asks when arrives at Hardy’s at ungodly o’clock the next morning. She nods at the large, owl patterned suitcase standing at the end of the sofa as she voices her question, taking in the tote bag and coat hanging from the handle too.

“Daisy wants to go back to her mums,” Hardy mumbles, clearly miserable about the idea. “Booked herself a train.”

“And you’re just going to let her!?”

“I’ve asked her not to. _Begged_ her not to. Said she’d sleep on it.”

“You should tear her ticket up and say it’s not happening. S’what I’d do.”

“I cannae do that!” Hardy protests as he continues wrestling with his tie. “She’s nearly grown; old enough to make her own decisions and have them respected!”

“ _Nearly_ grown,” Ellie repeats with a pointed look. “Still just a kid right now no matter how close it is to not being true, and you’re the parent. It’s not just her this is affecting. You clearly hate the idea so put your foot down!”

“Ack, I don’t want to be one of them control freak dads Miller.”

“Your funeral,” she finishes with as she stands up and swings her bag strap over her shoulder. “Now move your arse; we’ve only got six hours before Burnett’s custody hold time runs out. Clock’s a-ticking.”

* * *

They discuss the day’s plan of attack while moving around each other in the staff kitchenette with the ease of long familiarity. Hardy agrees to keep on at Burnett while Ellie checks out a secondary lead relating to the other victims. Handing over a fresh mug of tea as they pass each other again, Ellie uses their proximity to swipe a slice of toast off his plate.

“Oi!” he protests in his thick burr, his expression caught between annoyance and amusement.

“Keep me updated!” she calls back as she walks out, grinning around a stolen mouthful.

* * *

They’re having a mid-morning catch up with their DSI when Hardy’s phone rings.

Ellie can guess who was calling and what the conversation was about from the desolated look on his face.

“She still wants to leave then?” she asks quietly while they oversee Ed Burnett’s bail being organised and posted.

“Going to pick her up in ten minutes and drop her at the station,” he sighs with another despondent grimace.

“What me to come with?” she offers. “Silent support. We could discuss our next move while you drive, keep your mind off her.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Thanks but- no, I want those last few minutes just me and her. All my focus on her.”

“Alright. Call me when you’re headed back.”

* * *

Once again back at the station after taking Jim Atwood into custody, Ellie can’t help but notice that Hardy’s suddenly in a much better mood.

“You didn’t let her go,” she grins, suddenly catching on when she catches him staring into space with a smile.

“No I did not,” he grins triumphantly back. “Found those lads, gave them the bollocking of their life and then tore her ticket up.”

“You took my advice!” she exclaims happily. “Makes a change!”

“Oi! I listen to you quite a lot actually,” he protests. “But I worked out what my problem is Miller. I’m too _nice.”_

“Err no,” she immediately objects, feeling her face drop.

“Never works out does it, being nice?”

“That is the opposite of your problem,” she refutes again.

“Well I’m done with it,” he tries to stay stoically. “No more trying to be friendly.”

Only his façade cracks a second later and he starts giggling worse than Fred into his arms.

“Oh you’re a wanker,” Ellie deadpans with realisation. “Winding me up like that you bell-end.”

“Your face,” he cackles at her as he stands up and moves to greet PC Bob who’s brought them a message.

* * *

“This is amazing,” Ellie breathes quietly to Hardy as they stand on the station steps in the cool night air that evening.

“The power of compassion and solidarity,” he agrees in a low rumble.

Before them, all the women of Broadchurch turn and hold up their phones, their screens shining like beacons in the darkness.

“We’re going to catch this bastard Miller,” Hardy says lowly. “And we’re going to make this town safe for all these women again.”

* * *

* * *

Slowly the vice of evidence they’re creating tightens.

Ian waterman admits to using spyware, installed on his ex-wife’s laptop.

Atwood’s wife finds potentially crucial evidence and helps dismantle false alibis. Condoms and receipts and old calendars painting a concerning picture. 

One of the party’s serving staff crystallises the crime scene timeline as well as providing potential motive.

Leo Humphries is given up as the source of the spy ware.

The vice tightens and more secrets keep spilling out.

* * *

And then the sock turns out to have traces of two sets of DNA.

Trishes.

And Clive Lucas’.

* * *

They’re on their way to arrest Lucas and bring him in for questioning when Ellie gets a call from Katie Hartford. She makes Hardy pull over despite his protests and relays the new information she’s being given over the top of his grumbling.

“They found the twine outside the farm shop. It’s in a bag covered in blood. The twine that is, not the bag.”

“Oh bloody hell, why is Hartford involved again.” Hardy groans, scrubbing his hands down over his face. “Fine just- uniform just pulled up behind us so go with them to meet Barnett and I’ll go to Lucas’ on my own. I’ll meet you back in the station. Call me if anything happens before then.”

* * *

* * *

Lucas trashes his own alibi by being too cocky and talking himself into a corner; claims he witnessed Ed Barnett’s fight with Atwood despite having previously stated he was miles away with another taxi fare by that point. He also doesn’t have an answer as to why his DNA is on the sock used to gag Trish.

They escort him back to holding and keep poking at the evidence slowly exposing itself.

* * *

Ed Burnett insists that he’s only trying to help, despite having some very convenient excuses s to why his DNA is all over the bag and bloody twine. Hardy is sure that he’s still holding something back, and with enough pressure, that final secret of his finally comes spilling out.

* * *

“It’s times like this I wish I still smoked,” Hardy breathes out in a long huff once they’ve moved out of the integration room back to the staff kitchenette. 

“I _knew_ you used to smoke!” Ellie grins triumphantly. Three years it’s taken to get that admission out of him. 

“Yes, I know your instincts are good,” he replies with a fond eye roll. “What are they telling you are Barnett’s story. Is he finally telling the truth?”

“Possibly. Or it could be a very clever get out of jail free card,” Ellie points out as she crosses her arms and leans next to him. “I wasn’t there but I was nearby.”

“If that what he’s been carrying, explains a lot,” Hardy sighs. “Hearing it happen and walking away thinking it was nothing. That’s a thing to live with.”

“Well it’s nothing compared to what Trish is dealing with,” she mutters with a scowl. “Distantly hearing a rape versus actually surviving through one.”

“No. No It is not,” Hardy agrees solemnly just as his phone buzzes.

* * *

Ellie’s on a roll. 

The CCTV from outside the farm shop shows their suspect dropping the bag with the twine and running off round the outbuildings and into an adjacent field. Having lived in Broadchurch all her life, it only takes her a few moments to pull out a map and find the footpath that runs through it. And then only a moment more to match up its intersection with the road with the new traffic cam installation map. 

Within seconds, she’s plugged in the approximate time stamp, scrolled through until she’s found their suspect darting through the path gate and over to the car parked in the passing place opposite. Zooming in on the car’s rear licence plate (thank goodness it’s a traffic cam and thus designed precisely for this purpose), she mentally notes the registration and then pulls up the DVLA database.

Leo Humphries face stares back at them from her computer screen. 

“Well if it isn’t swaggery little shit,” she sneers as Hardy peers triumphantly over her shoulder.

“You should do this for a living,” he praises with wry humour and a clap of his hand on her bicep.

* * *

The night air is once again cool around them as they sit side by side on the station steps. The wind whistles around them as waves slosh quietly in the nearby harbour, and Ellie tucks her hands under her arms before they go frigid.

“We've got Leo Humphries on camera disposing of a bag containing bloodstained twine which forensics have confirmed is a match with the fibres taken from Trish Winterman's wrists,” she recites while Hardy leans forward and intertwines his fingers, forearms resting on his knees. 

“But we also have Lucas in custody, no alibi and his DNA on the gag,” he shoots back.

Ellie pauses for a long second before an idea occurs to her.

“Maybe it was both of them together?” she proposes, causing Hardy to scrub his hands viciously over his face. “Leo disposing of the bag for Lucas,” she continues, “to throw suspicion onto Ed?”

“Do they even know each other, is there a connection?” he refutes, still rubbing at his eyes.

“Yeah,” Ellie quietly exclaims. “Football. Er, football sock! They both brought the goals to the match with the blue twine. Someone said Leo trains the team. And Lucas is on that team. So, yeah, there's a connection.”

“Time to go pick up Mr Humphries then,” Hardy announces, already standing up and brushing his trousers off.

* * *

“Hello Danielle, is Leo here,” Ellie asks Leo’s girlfriend with forced politeness when she answers the door while Hardy pulls his phone out and quickly taps at the screen.

“No he’s not, sorry,” Danielle replies with obvious insincerity. 

“Cause we went to his house and his dad said he was here with you,” Ellie carries on just as a phone starts ringing from inside the house behind them.

“Well if he’s not here, why’s his phone ringing?” her DI asks with a smug, pointed look in his eyes. “Come of out Leo!”

Ellie carefully doesn’t grin up at him when Leo Humphries skulks into the hallway with a resigned look on his face.

* * *

With Leo now back in custody and sitting pretty in one the interrogation rooms, they prep Clive Lucas for another grilling.

Despite repeatedly poking holes in his story _and_ warning his that Leo Humphries would mercilessly drop him in it when the talked to him next, Lucas continues to insist he’s innocent. Eventually he refuses to speak any further without talking to his solicitor first, which might be the first sensible thing he’s done throughout the duration of the investigation. 

They know the he and Humphries were together that night, that they were both involved in the assault. 

Now they just have to prove it.

* * *

They move like cogs in the same mechanism as they march around CID gathering files and statements and timelines.

Lucas and Humphries sit in separate holding cells while they compile and cross reference and bounce ideas off of each other. 

Outside, the night deepens.

* * *

They get phone number analysis results and discover that someone slightly unexpected had tried to call Humphries that night.

Furthermore, triangulating phone data reveals that Lucas’, Humphries’, _and_ the other number were all at Axehampton house the night of the assault, and – equally importantly – all three were together again later that night.

“Clive Lucas is involved, but not how we thought…” Hardy trails off as he stares down at the printout Ellie just handed him. “I was right about the map and his lies; he _did_ drive along the road between here and Lyme that night, just later than he told us originally.”

“And he’s being so reticent about the truth because… well….”

She pulls an unhappy, regretful face and waves at the file in Hardy’s hand instead of vocalising it. 

“God I hate it when there’s kids involved,” Hardy sighs, voice full of loathing. “He’ll be tried as an adult for this. And the assault definitely qualifies for aggravating factors consideration so that’s a minimum of 8 years.”

“We’re gonna have to get Clive Lucas to confirm it was him in the taxi,” Ellie grimaces, trying not to think about the fact that her Tom is the same age and _friends_ with this young offender. “This mobile data could be considered circumstantial otherwise; any defence solicitor worth their salt will be able to explain why Michael Lucas’ phone was in his dad’s taxi otherwise.”

* * *

It all comes spilling out from there.

Michael cracks almost as soon as they have him in the interview room and tells them everything.

How Leo helped him weather his father’s emotional neglect, how he presented himself as the cool older friend willing to help him find his way in the world.

How he groomed him; showed him porn, brought him booze, pushed his girlfriend upon him. 

Took him to parties and gave him condoms.

Took him to _the_ party.

Made him watch as he attacked Trish Winterman from behind, bound and gagged her.

Turned on _him_ until he felt he had to go through with it. Felt that he had no choice but to commit rape.

Ellie knows even as she listens to Michael’s words through his tears, that the young man won’t be able to claim forced coercion in court. That he gave in to Leo’s demands too easily despite his apparent horror, that he hid from the law too long for his heartfelt confession to mean much now.

She already knows that when they go to tell Clive about his son’s confession that he will try to insist on taking the blame. 

However shit a father he may be in other areas of parenting, he’s already shown he’s not shit here.

* * *

With a confession from a minor in hand, their next step is to call in their Chief Super to review it, and then to see if they can tie Leo Humphries to the two other rapes they’ve been informed of. 

Within an hour, SOCO and uniform have overturned Leo’s house, his work office, and all of the belongings he was keeping at his girlfriend’s place. They find a phone taped to the back of his work desk and they suddenly have all the evidence they need.

* * *

“We recovered this,” CS Clarke grimaces as she shows them the file containing the discovered video clips on one of Cyber’s secure laptops. “Appears to be footage of the attacks on Trish Winterman and Laura Benson. Along with two others we don't have formal records of. I'm assuming one of them may be the woman who disclosed to her ISVA. It's not pretty, but it is clear evidence Leo Humphries raped two other women who haven’t come forward.”

She pushes the play button for the first video and Ellie forces herself to watch despite the nausea rising in her throat. She owes it to these women. To watch the horrors and to empathise, to know in graphic detail why their attacker must be brought to justice. To have the knowledge needed to confirm the identity of the victims in a court of law so that he may be brought low for his crimes.

“That’s Laura Benson,” she verifies as the first of the poor women have their souls ruthlessly ripped out before her eyes.

Beside her, Hardy’s lip twitches towards a snarl of disgust and he leans sideways until their shoulders are touching.

A silent pillar of reassurance in a black cloud of anguish.

* * *

“Leo,” Hardy begins stoically, ready to real off every damning fact and shred of evidence they’ve collected. “You're aware you have been further arrested in connection with three further offences of rape: one against Laura Benson and two identities unknown at this stage on or before the 28th of May 2016. And that an extension to your custody time has been authorised. We found the weapon used to assault the victim, a child's cricket bat, during a search of your office at Humphries Nets. Preliminary forensics have identified your prints on the bat along with those of Michael Lucas and the blood of the victim. In addition, we have CCTV footage of you dumping a bag in a shed at Flintcombe Farm Shop. The bag contained twine confirmed to have been used to tie up Trish Winterman. Michael Lucas explained where you found the football sock you used to gag Trish Winterman. And we have camera phone footage of all four rapes from a phone taped to the back of your desk in your office. The phone is registered in your name.”

Leo Humphries sits in a relaxed manner opposite them, a smug smile threatening to creep out and a cold, gleeful look in his eyes.

Ellie banks back the familiar rage building in her chest.

“Why did you film it Leo?” Hardy asks with obvious disgust.

“Because,” Leo replies with that glimmer still in his eyes, “I wanted to remember it.”

* * *

It’s over. They have him.

They have _them._

Leo Humphries and Michael Lucas. 

Trish Winterman and Laura Benson and the other two women will have their justice, and a dangerous predator and his young gullible… _apprentice_ will be off the streets and out of her town. 

She feels sick.

* * *

She escapes outside with her melancholia, leaving Hardy to sort out Atwood and Burnett’s releases. 

The cool sea air and relative privacy are the trigger she needs to release her pent-up fury and sorrow, and within moments of hunching down to sit on the steps there are tears flowing silently down her face but for the occasional sniff.

She’s only alone for maybe 15 minutes before Hardy wanders outside to find her.

“You okay?” he asks with apparent concern, clearly already knowing what the answer is going to be,

“No,” she tells him truthfully with a shake of her head.”

“We have them now, that footage will send them down” he tries to reassure, the grimace on his face telling her that for once, he knows its cold comfort. 

She doesn’t reply, but does catch the moment of indecision on his face before he crouches down next to her and lets his long spindly legs splay out before them.

“He is not what men are,” he states with so much conviction that she knows he truly believes humanity is capable of and will do better. “He’s an aberration.” 

“I hope so,” she breathes wetly through the tears, holding back a sob.

He looks at her, and she can feel his eyes burning sorrowfully into the side of her face.

“Don’t slap me,” he mumbles awkwardly, before he shuffles across the few inches separating them and hooks his arm over her shoulders. 

She buries her face in the shoulder of his jacket and lets it all out.

* * *

* * *

When it’s over, when it’s all truly over. 

When Michael and Leo have been sentenced and found guilty.

When Tom has teamed up with Daisy and Leah Winterman and very vocally announced a plan to deal with the poor state of school compulsory sex education.

When Trish can sleep – if not easily, at least safe in the knowledge that she will be the last ever of their victims.

That’s when Ellie sits besides Alec Hardy on a windy bench against the sea wall, his arm pressed tightly against hers.

“Pub?” she asks with a wide smile.

“Aye, go on then,” he sighs melodramatically as he takes her hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://insane-sociopath.tumblr.com/) or read my other [Fandom work](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=kudos_count&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=InsaneSociopath)
> 
> Will Britpick for other authors in exchange for comments ;)


End file.
